The  Literary  Gift  Book  of  the  Year 


TWENTY-FOUR 


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GRANVILLE  BARKER, 

MAX  BEERBOHM, 

ARNOLD  BENNETT, 
ROBERT  BRIDGES, 

A,  GLUTTON-BROCK, 

T.  J.  COBDEN-SANDERSON, 
JOSEPH  CONRAD, 

JOHN  DRINKWATER, 

Sir  EDWARD  ELGAR,  O.M. 
Sir  JAMES  FRAZER, 

JOHN  GALSWORTHY, 
ANDRE  GIDE, 

EDMUND  GOSSE, 

LORD  HALDANE,  O.M. 
THOMAS  HARDY,  O.M. 

A.  E.  HOUSMAN, 

W.  H.  HUDSON, 

DEAN  INGE, 

T.  E.  LAWRENCE, 

JOHN  MASEFIELD, 
GEORGE  RUSSELL,  (A.E.) 

G.  BERNARD  SHAW, 

Sir  J.  J.  THOMSON,  O.M. 

H.  G.  WELLS. 


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The  artist  has  during  many  years  made  drawings  of  his 
friends  and  contemporaries.  A selection  of  these  is  here 
reproduced  by  Mr.  Emery  Walker  by  the  collotype  proc- 
ess. Biographical  studies  to  accompany  the  portraits  are 
contributed  for  the  most  part  by  the  persons  whose  por- 
traits are  included. 


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TWENTY-FOUR  PORTRAITS 

by  William  Rothenstein 

With  critical  appreciations  by  various  hands 


NEW  YORK 

HARCOURT,  BRACE  AND  COMPANY 


FIRST  PUBLISHED  IN  ig20 


THIS  EDITION  IS  LIMITED  TO  2000  COTIES  OF  WHICH  1200 
ARE  FOR  SALE  IN  GREAT  BRITAIN  AND  8oO  IN  THE  U.  S.  A. 


ALL  RIGHTS  RESERVED 


TO  THREE  NOBLE  MEN 

MAX  BEERBOHM  JOHN  DRINKWATER  AND  WILLIAM  SIMMONDS 
WHOSE  ENCHANTING  SOCIETY  AND  EQUALLY 
ENCHANTING  WORKS  WERE  THE  CROWNING  COMFORT 
OF  A LONG  SOJOURN  IN  A COTSWOLD  VILLAGE 
THESE  TWENTY  FOUR  DRAWINGS  ARE 
AFFECTIONATELY  DEDICATED 


Digitized  by  the  Internet  Archive 

in  2016 


https://archive.org/details/twentyfourportraOOunse 


Preface 


The  twenty-four  drawings  here  reproduced  by  Mr.  Emery  Walker 
were  selected  from  among  many  which  it  has  been  my  happy  privilege  . 
to  make  of  my  friends  and  contemporaries  during  the  last  few  years. 
Two  dozen  are  all  too  few  where  there  are  so  many  whose  conduct 
and  work  contribute  to  our  country’s  assets.  The  riches  of  the  world 
do  not  all  lie  in  mines  or  oil  fields,  nor  yet  in  the  safes  of  Banks,  of 
Companies  and  of  Trade  Unions.  Much  of  our  wealth  is  supplied  by 
men  of  vision  who  must  often,  lest  they  be  prevented  from  giving  their 
best,  deposit  their  gold  under  men’s  pillows  in  the  night-time. 

The  publication  of  these  drawings  is  intended  as  an  act  of  homage 
to  those  who  give  rather  than  take.  If  the  result  seems  to  warrant  it 
I hope  to  continue  the  series.  For  the  admirable  text  which  accom- 
panies the  portraits  1 cannot  be  sufficiently  grateful  to  my  friends.  I 
am  proud  to  have  had  the  co-operation  of  the  wise  and  witty  writers 
of  the  appreciatory  notes;  and  my  warm  thanks  — and  the  thanks  of 
the  readers — are  due  to  H.  Granville  Barker,  MaxBeerbohm,  Arnold 
Bennett,  Laurence  Binyon,  A.  Clutton-Brock,  Francis  M.  Cornford, 
John  Drinkwater,  H. A. L. Fisher,  A.H.Fox-Strangways,  John  Free- 
man, John  Galsworthy,  Eric  Gill,  Edmund  Gosse,  R.B.  Cunninghame 
Graham,  Sir  Henry  Hadow,  David  Hogarth,  Sir  Joseph  Larmor, 
Frederick  Manning,  Henry  W.  Nevinson,  Sir  Henry  Newbolt,  James 
Stevens,  George  Street  and  H.  G.  Wells. 

August  1920 


W.R. 


* 


Contents 


Granville  Barker 
Max  Beerbohm 
Arnold  Bennett 
Robert  Bridges 
Arthur  Clutton- Brock 
T.  J.  Cobden-Sanderson 
Joseph  Conrad 
John  Galsworthy 
John  Drinkwater 
Sir  Edward  Elgar,  O.M. 
Sir  James  Frazer 
Andre  Gide 


Edmund  Gosse 
Lord  Haldane,  O.M. 
Thomas  Hardy,  O.M. 

A.  E.  Housman 
W.  H.  Hudson 
The  Dean  of  St.  Paul’s 
Thomas  Edward  Lawrence 
Sir  J.  J.  Thomson,  O.M. 
John  Masefield 
George  Russell  (A.E.) 
George  Bernard  Shaw 
H.  G.  Wells 


GRANVILLE  BARKER 


GRANVILLE  BARKER 

It  is  passing  hard  for  a personal  friend  and  keen  admirer  to  write  a 
page  on  Granville  Barker  which  shall  have  that  judicial  detachment 
and  discrimination  so  desirable  in  the  valuer  of  other  men’s  wares. 
However — ! 

Everybody  knows  his  work  for  the  stage;  but  few  perhaps  realize 
the  extent  to  which  his  strong  individuality  cut  across  the  stubborn 
shibboleths,  and  revitalized  the  stationary  mechanism, .of  the  British 
stage. 

H is  work  at  the  Court  theatre  was,  frankly,  a revolution;  for  in 
those  four  years,  from  1903  to  1907,  he  formed  a school  of  acting 
whose  offshoots  to  this  day  provide  the  best  miming  in  this  island. 

Granville  Barker,  first  of  moderns,  made  London  realize  that  ‘the 
play’s  the  thing’,  and  before  him  the  ‘stars’  in  their  courses  trembled 
and  stood  still.  Many  lesser  lights  who  passed  through  his  hands 
have  become  ‘stars’  since,  yet  none  of  these  have  quite  forgotten  that 
their  places  in  the  planetary  system  are  not  absolute  but  relative. 

But  it  is  rather  of  Granville  Barker  the  dramatist,  than  of  Granville 
Barker  actor  and  producer,  that  one  would  speak.  ‘The  V oysey  Inher- 
itance’ has  not  been  surpassed  as  a comedy  of  English  manners  in  our 
time;  nor  ‘The  Marriage  of  Ann  Leete’  as  an  experiment  in  tech- 
nique. As  for  ‘Waste’ — seldom  was  a play  better  named.  Banned  by 
the  incredible  censorship  of  that  day,  it  never  had  a chance.  It  is  not, 
perhaps,  the  great  tragedy  which  William  Archer  thought  it,  but  it 
is  an  extraordinarily  interesting  play.  A little  yarn  of  its  first  and  only 
production  comes  into  the  mind.  “The  play  strikes  its  sublimest 
note,”  wrote  one  of  its  critics,  “when  the  hero,  going  out  to  commit 
suicide,  utters  the  words:  ‘Leave  it!”’  Well,  Granville  Barker  who 
wrote  the  play,  produced  the  play,  and  played  the  hero,  had,  as  he  left 
the  stage  for  death,  descried  a stage  hand  about  to  shut  the  wrong 
door.  The  sublime  utterance  ‘Leave  it!’  was  made  to  that  stage  hand. 

Just  one  word  to  end  on  — Loyalty.  There  never  was  a man  who 
more  loyally  served  the  best  interests  of  the  drama  in  this  country, 
than  Granville  Barker. 


\ 


* 


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MAX  BEERBOHM 


MAX  BEERBOHM 

If  a man  were  asked,  given  the  wide  range,  if  you  will,  of  a move- 
ment, a force,  a personality,  a writer,  to  name  the  most  completely 
distinguished  fact  in  the  England  of  our  time,  how  happy  would  it  be 
for  his  reputation  with  posterity  if  he  had  the  wit  to  say.  Max  Beer- 
bohm.  Distinguished,  like  many  other  satisfactory  words,  is  one  that 
is  overworked,  but  there  is  none  that  can  be  so  perfectly  applied  to 
Mr.  Beerbohm.  Distinction  with  him  is  never  oddity,  or  precious- 
ness, or  mere  windy  cleverness.  His  writing  is  so  simple  that  every 
good  phrase  seems  almost  like  a lucky  accident;  but  the  luck  goes  on 
always  to  the  end  of  the  chapter,  and  you  finish  reading  with  the  con- 
sciousness of  every  phrase  having  been  good  right  through.  It  would 
be  safe  to  defy  Mr.  Beerbohm’s  most  jealous  critic  to  find  an  unsuc- 
cessful passage  anywhere  in  his  work.  And  this  admirable  sureness 
of  detail  means  an  underlying  constructive  power  which,  although 
Mr.  Beerbohm  uses  it  for  delicate  enough  ends,  is  one  of  the  major 
qualities  of  literary  art.  “ Hilary  Maltby  and  Stephen  Braxton”  is  as 
compact  a piece  of  craftsmanship  as  “ Samson  Agonistes,”  which,  it 
may  be  pointed  out,  is  not  to  affront  Mr.  Beerbohm  by  saying  that 
he  is  as  great  a writer  as  Milton. 

It  is  the  same  with  his  drawings.  Wit  is  their  apparent  design, 
but  (and  especially  in  his  later  work)  there  is  always  the  great  sincer- 
ity of  beauty.  That,  perhaps,  is  Mr.  Beerbohm’s  secret;  he  has  the 
wittiest  mind  of  an  age,  but  he  is  a serious  artist. 


t 


ARNOLD  BENNETT 


ARNOLD  BENNETT 

Seven  cities  were  the  birthplace  of  Homer,  and  Arnold  Bennett  was 
begotten  by  F ive  T owns.  They  are  five  vari  ous  towns  with  an  immense 
air  of  urgent  practicality  in  the  foreground  of  the  most  beautiful  and 
strange  coloured  sunsets  in  the  world.  They  present  an  aspect  of  flar- 
ing blast  furnaces  and  smoky  kilns  to  the  superficial  eye,  they  roar  and 
hammer  and  clatter  catastrophically  — all  except  Newcastle  which 
pretends  to  be  genteel — and  they  send  out  the  most  delicate  and  trans- 
lucent egg-shell  china  cups  conceivable  all  over  the  earth.  It  was  in- 
evitable that  the  literary  child  of  this  quintuple  parentage  should  blend 
something  very  hard  and  common  with  something  very  fine,  and  so  it 
is  that  Arnold  Bennett  is  a knowing  Card  among  poets  and  dramatists 
and  writing  people  and  withal  a very  great  and  delicate  creative  artist 
indeed.  The  Five  Towns  have  their  commercial  bleak  daytime  aspect 
and  their  hours  of  gigantic  mystery  at  sundown  and  in  the  twilight. 
Bennett  writes  his  Sacred  and  Profane  Love,  his  Theresa  of  Watting  Street 
and  his  little  hand  books  of  provincial  savoir  faire,  and  then  amazes  and 
subdues  us  with  a Clay  hanger,  a Matador  of  the  Five  Towns  or  an  Old 
Wives'  Tale . These  are  his  heights  and  depths,  but  also  to  be  considered 
there  are  his  humorous  breadths.  The  greatness  of  Bennett  shines  out 
at  times  irregularly  and  uncertainly  upon  the  world,  but  the  humorous 
Bennett,  with  a fun  that  is  all  his  own,  smiles  perpetually  through 
whatever  he  writes,  great  things  or  little.  Laughter  like  charity  should 
begin  at  home,  and  the  dearest  entertainment  of  Arnold  Bennett  is 
Arnold  Bennett.  A Great  Man  and  The  Card,  Hugo  and  The  Grand 
Babylon  Hotel  are  full  of  a delighted  and  delightful  appreciation  of  the 
grandiose  impulse  he  cherishes  and  confesses  in  his  heart.  He  likes 
glitter,  wealth,  big  smart  things,  success,  applause,  the  brilliant  shams 
of  things  theatrical  and  good  advertisements,  and  he  laughs  at  his  lik- 
ing. The  genius  and  humour  of  Enoch  Arnold  Bennett  have  made 
him  our  leading  novelist  and  one  of  our  most  successful  playwrights, 
but  if  the  Enoch  could  have  got  away  from  the  Arnold,  he  would 
probably  have  made  a brilliantly  successful  business  man.  But  theAr- 
nold  is  the  master;  Bennett  has  written  greatly  and  he  has  written  for 
fun  and  sometimes  he  has  just  written,  but  no  one  can  say  that  he  has 
ever  written  merely  for  money  or  sold  his  pen  or  betrayed  the  republic 
of  letters  for  any  commercial  end. 


I 


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J 


ROBERT  BRIDGES 


ROBERT  BRIDGES 

It  is  just  thirty  years  since  the  appearance  of  the  Shorter  Poems 
made  known  to  a large  public  the  exquisite  lyric  art  of  Robert  Bridges. 
The  poet  was  then  no  longer  young;  he  had  retired  from  the  profession 
of  medicine,  and  with  a certain  Miltonic  haughtiness, — a disdain  of 
the  fevers  and  competitions  of  literary  life  as  it  is  lived  in  London, — 
pursued  his  chosen  art  in  the  pleasant  seclusion  of  a Berkshire  village. 
Before  1890  his  poems,  privately  printed  for  the  most  part,  had  been 
known  to  few.  Though  not  acclaimed  and  trumpeted  by  the  Press, 
the  Shorter  Poems  won  from  the  first  a sure  success;  and  the  influence 
of  this  book  of  lyrics,  and  of  its  successors,  has  been  all  the  more  pro- 
found because  not  obvious  on  the  surface.  Never  before  was  the 
English  country,  the  colour,  the  scents  and  sounds  of  it,  so  truly  felt 
and  intimately  pictured;  and  on  the  side  of  rhythmical  art  the  book 
reached  out  to  a novel  and  unsuspected  range  of  music  in  English 
verse.  It  opened  the  ears  of  a new  generation:  and,  consciously  or 
unconsciously,  scarcely  one  of  the  young  poets  of  to-day  is  unaffected 
by  that  liberating  example.  When  the  Poet  Laureateship  fell  vacant, 
the  appointment  of  Robert  Bridges  was  a surprise  to  the  many;  the 
few  rejoiced  that  the  public  laurel  should  be  worn  by  one  who  was 
not  only  a thorough  and  distinguished  master  of  his  chosen  style  but 
a bold  and  fruitful  innovator.  Learned  in  his  art,  Mr.  Bridges  is  no 
respecter  of  traditions  for  their  own  sake.  None  has  been  more  gen- 
erous with  encouragement  for  his  juniors,  more  quick  to  seek  out  new 
talent.  A famous  athlete  in  his  youth,  he  wears  his  years  well.  The 
youth  of  Oxford  who  climb  Boar’s  Hill  to  seek  his  conversation  do  not 
sit  solemn  at  the  feet  of  a conventional  sage,  whose  every  commonplace 
is  translated  into  an  oracle:  they  find  a man,  splendid  in  stature,  lean 
and  leonine,  ready  to  talk  and  ready  to  listen,  paradoxical,  challenging, 
with  flashes  of  fun,  whimsical  brusqueness,  confident  enthusiasm  for 
his  latest  scheme  or  for  old  music;  and  behind  all  an  impression  of 
deep  tenderness  of  nature  combined  with  a rather  indolent  strength 
and  loftiness  makes  one  understand  the  more  how  the  delicacy  of  the 
poems  is  the  delicacy  only  possible  to  power. 


\ 


A.  CLUTTON-BROCK 


MR.  A.  CLUTTON-BROCK 

Mr.  Brock  could  prove  anything.  Mercifully,  he  chooses  only 
those  things  which  are  worth  proving  upon  which  to  show  this  skill. 
Under  his  pilotage  we  sail  on  smooth  seas  beyond  the  Charybdis  of 
the  particular  instance  and  the  Scylla  of  a generalisation.  The  trouble 
begins  when  we  try  to  reconstruct  his  argument  with  a view  to  con- 
vincing others  and  find  our  weak  hands  grasping  a bow  of  Ulysses. 

It  may  happen  you  are  staying  somewhere  among  the  Surrey  ponds 
and  commons  and,  after  paying  homage  at  the  Watts  gallery,  are  taken 
a little  further  on  to  visit  Mr.  Brock.  You  are  received  in  the  garden 
he  knows  and  loves  and  presently  enter  Tobacco-Parliament  House 
itself.  When  the  evening  sitting  begins  it  is  seen  at  once  that  no 
notice  is  required  of  any  question,  that  every  topic  is  welcome  and 
all  are  debatable,  that  there  are  as  many  parties  as  there  are  chairs, 
and  that  you  have  to  fight  for  your  life  on  some  issue  that  you  have 
been  rash  enough  to  raise.  In  a corner,  sewing,  sits  the  Speaker,  but 
she  seldom  speaks;  and  this  is  well  for  the  argument,  for  when  she 
has  spoken  there  is  usually  little  to  add. 

Mr.  Brock  is  a polyglot.  He  talks  pictures  or  poems,  music  or  morals 
with  so  slight  an  accent  that  we  find  ourselves  wondering  which  of 
them  is  his  native  tongue  — the  vocabulary,  indeed,  not  equal  but  the 
fluency  coeternal.  And  when  instead  of  listening  to  his  words  we  read 
them,  they  do  not  read  like  a translation.  It  is  not  this  language  or 
that  but  language  as  such  that  he  uses,  and  in  his  style  many-coloured 
idiom  is  lost  in  the  white  light  of  expression. 

Philosophies  are  often  panaceas  — we  think  of  Hegel’s  positivised 
negative,  of  Schopenhauer’s  creative  pessimism.  In  Mr.  Brock’s  view 
of  the  truth  of  things  there  is  no  one  cure  for  all  ills.  He  does  not 
vaguely  refer  everything  to  the  humours,  nor  precisely  pin  his  faith 
to  phlebotomy  or  cautery.  He  writes  a Treasure  of  Poore  Men,  being 
a Booke  of  very  good  Medicines,  where  instead  of  “the  Vertues  of  theis 
Hearbs”  he  speaks  quietly  of  “the  Christian  Values”.  The  world 
has  always  need  of  such  herbals. 


T.  J.  COBDEN-SANDERSON 


T.  J.  COBDEN-SANDERSON 

Thomas  James  Cobden-Sanderson,  born  at  Alnwick  in  1840,  is 
almost  the  last  survivor  of  the  group  of  whom  William  Morris  was 
the  most  famous.  But,  unlike  that  great  man,  Mr.  Cobden-Sanderson 
is  primarily  a man  of  religion,  and  if  his  religion  is  chiefly  a thing  of 
his  own  invention  that  is  a thing  for  which  the  Christian  minority  no 
less  than  the  Agnostic  majority  is  partly  to  be  blamed.  The  religion  of 
the  churches  is  from  the  point  of  view  of  the  outsider  a dead  mediae- 
valism.  The  agnosticism  of  the  crowd  is  an  impotent  laisser  faire. 
Money  and  the  making  of  money  is  the  spur  to  action  to-day.  Material 
convenience  and  enrichment  are  the  modern  man’s  ambitions.  Against 
these  things  M orris  fought,  and  with  him  Cobden-Sanderson,  and  they 
attempted  by  personal  handiwork  to  show  that  useful  things  could 
be  not  only  beautiful  but  the  source  of  beautiful  life.  By  propaganda 
they  sought  to  create  a movement  of  revolt  against  the  commercial- 
ism of  the  modern  world  and  a return  to  the  mediaeval  conception  of 
good  workmanship  and  good  society. 

Mr.  Cobden-Sanderson  as  workman,  as  printer  and  bookbinder,  has 
done  what  few  have  attempted.  He  has  sought  for  himself  a vision  of 
God  and  given  his  vision  noble  and  holy  utterance  in  the  printed  word. 
Let  us  praise  “men  rich  in  virtue,  studying  beautifulness;  living  in 
peace  in  their  houses.” 


JOSEPH  CONRAD 


JOSEPH  CONRAD 

It  is  said  that  no  human  being  is  more  solitary  than  a ship-captain. 
Joseph  Conrad  held  the  august  and  withdrawn  situation  of  a ship- 
captain,  in  the  British  Merchant  Service,  for  a number  of  years.  He 
has  now  been  an  author,  before  the  public,  for  just  a quarter  of  a 
century ; but  the  habit  of  solitude,  reinforced  continually  by  a reserved 
and  sensitive  temperament,  has  so  clung  to  him  that  his  personality  is 
scarcely  better  known  to-day  than  when  he  published  his  first  book, 
“Almayer’s  Folly”,  in  i 895.  The  few  people  of  his  second  vocation 
who  meet  him  know  that  he  is  as  distinguished,  elusive,  and  romantic 
as  the  finest  of  his  own  heroes;  and,  save  exceeding  few  among  them, 
they  know  no  more.  His  portrait  is  a rare  and  a misleading  apparition 
in  the  papers.  His  name  hides  a more  formidable  one.  The  language 
which  he  uses  is  not  the  language  which  he  spoke  as  a youth;  nor  is 
it  quite  the  idiom  of  an  Englishman.  In  his  earlier  works  are  to  be 
found  many  exotic  turns  of  phrase,  and  some  which  cannot  be  strictly 
defined  as  English.  He  has  gradually  perfected  the  instrument  which 
he  selected  for  himself,  and  to-day  his  luxurious  prose,  while  no  Eng- 
lishman could  write  it,  is  unassailable  by  purists  and  professors.  Even 
his  magnificent  partiality  for  the  adjective,  which  he  dangerously  lifted 
to  a level  hitherto  unknown  in  Britain,  has  been  chastened  in  obedi- 
ence to  the  genius  of  the  tongue.  His  handling  of  English  must  count 
with  the  historic  miracles  of  the  craft  of  letters;  but  this  miracle  of 
slowly  acquired  virtuosity  is  forgotten  in  the  intrinsic  splendour  of 
the  work  itself.  He  does  not  merely  write  in  the  grand  manner, — he 
conceives  and  imagines  in  the  grand  manner.  So  much  so  that  the 
astounding  vehicle  of  the  work  sinks  to  secondary  importance.  His 
character  and  his  plots  are  heroic.  His  ruthless  realism  is  romantic. 
He  sees  man  and  the  earth  grandly.  He  does  not  want  to  alter  human 
nature — -he  loves  it. 


\ 


JOHN  DRINKWATER 


JOHN  DRINKWATER 

In  an  age  of  fierce  competition,  when  even  very  loud  voices,  roaring 
out  in  the  market-place  things  very  new  and  strange,  are  hardly  aud- 
ible through  the  din  of  innumerable  other  loud  voices  raised  not  less 
high  in  delivery  of  messages  equally  startling,  what  chance  is  there 
for  a man  who  stands  apart  and  utters  in  a level  tone  things  that  are 
not  at  all  eccentric?  It  would  seem  that  there  is  a fair  chance.  Old 
things  that  are  good  do  not  lose  their  freshness;  and  brand-new  things 
may  for  aught  we  know  turn  stale  at  any  moment;  and  not  everybody 
wants  to  be  deafened  all  the  time.  Neither  as  poet  nor  as  critic  has 
Mr.  Drinkwater  lacked  recognition,  though  as  critic  he  has  never 
sought  to  prove  that  the  previous  critics  were  all  wrong,  and  as  poet 
has  never  bullied  his  Muse  into  inspiring  him  with  unheard-of  notions 
and  unrecognisable  forms.  He  seems  to  be  less  preoccupied  with  his 
attitude  towards  life  and  art  than  with  the  joy  of  contemplating  and 
feeling  what  is  good  in  them.  Altogether,  a restful  person,  sunny, 
benign,  modest,  whom  one  can  more  easily  imagine  strolling  about 
the  Cotswolds  of  his  adoption  and  at  nightfall  writing  a lyric  about 
them,  and  then  climbing,  candle  in  hand, 

The  little  whitewashed  stair 

Above  the  lavender, 

than  one  can  imagine  him  waking  up  next  morning  to  find  himself 
famous  throughout  the  United  States  of  America.  Such  fame  has, 
however,  befallen  him.  The  land  in  which  Abraham  Lincoln  is  an 
almost  sacrosanct  figure  seems  to  have  embraced  whole-heartedly  Mr. 
Drinkwater’s  presentment  of  him.  Could  any  dramatist  have  a better 
testimonial  to  his  power  of  historic  sympathy  and  insight  — of  rising 
to  the  level  of  a great  theme?  Quite  apart  from  that,  the  success  of 
the  play  in  England  had  been  a welcome  proof  that  drama  can  after 
all  be  thoroughly  “theatrical,”  in  the  right  sense,  without  the  painful 
tightness  of  form  which  has  frightened  away  from  the  theatre  so  many 
potential  dramatists.  Young  men  will  write  plays  now  who  would  not 
have  dared  but  for  the  happy  lesson  taught  them  by  Mr.  Drinkwater. 
But  we  do  not,  of  course,  promise  that  their  plays  will  be  so  good  as 
those  for  which  we  look  to  that  happy  teacher. 


SIR  EDWARD  ELGAR,  O.M. 


SIR  EDWARD  ELGAR,  O.M. 

The  biography  of  every  great  artist  is  a history  of  the  interaction 
between  temperament  and  experience:  between  the  natural  endow- 
ment which  is  the  content  of  genius  and  the  training,  whether  of  the 
schools  or  of  the  world,  which  gives  it  form  and  experience.  In  the  ca- 
reer of  Elgar  this  interaction  has  been  singularly  close  and  harmonious. 
H is  natural  endowment  is  a keen  sense  of  beauty  of  tone,  an  imagin- 
ation vivid  and  poignant  rather  than  wide  of  range,  a special  gift  of 
pathos  and  tenderness,  and  above  all  a sheer  intellectual  power  which 
might  equally  well  have  made  him  a great  scientist,  or  a great  man  of 
letters.  It  is  no  coincidence,  it  is  still  less  a pose,  that  he  takes  far  more 
interest  in  discussing  a chemical  problem  or  extricating  a seventeenth- 
century  dramatist  than  in  any  question  concerning  this  technique  of 
his  own  art.  T like  music’  he  once  said  ‘but  I do  not  in  the  least  care 
to  know  how  it  is  made,’  and  he  is  probably  to  this  day  unconscious 
of  the  extent  to  which  in  his  recent  character  music  he  has  superseded 
the  old  classical  form.  Of  direct  musical  training  he  had  little  or  none. 
Schumann  learned  most  of  his  counterpoint  from  Jean  Paul:  Elgar’s 
composition  owes  less  to  the  music  teacher  than  to  the  collections  of 
old  English  authors  which  he  found  in  an  attic  at  home  and  devoured 
through  every  spare  moment  of  his  boyhood.  His  astonishing  gift 
of  orchestration  was  trained  not  in  any  school  but  in  amateur  bands 
when  he  had  the  inestimable  advantage  of  testing  each  experiment  as 
he  made  it,  and  the  result  is  a mastery  of  instrumental  dialogue,  which, 
had  he  nothing  else,  would  give  him  rank  among  the  great  artists  of 
the  world.  And  he  has  much  else.  Of  his  limitations  which  are  plain 
and  obvious,  there  is  no  need  here  to  speak — criticism  has  too  often 
deserved  its  definition  as  the  art  of  complaining  about  something  be- 
cause it  is  not  something  else — and  Elgar  has  given  so  much  that  it 
would  be  ungrateful  to  discuss  what  he  has  withheld.  A master  of 
the  grave  and  elegiac  mood  in  music,  a colourist  whose  richness  of 
tone  is  reinforced  by  the  full  texture  of  his  polyphony,  he  is  above  all 
conspicuous  for  the  variety  and  interest  of  his  musical  structure.  In 
the  Malvern  Variations,  in  the  Concert  Overture,  in  Falstaff,  in  the 
slow  movement  of  the  first  symphony  and  the  whole  of  the  second;  in 
the  violin  concerto,  in  the  pianoforte  quintet  he  has  taken  his  place 
among  the  great  composers  and  has  written  work  which  bids  fair  to 
live  so  long  as  the  Art  endures. 


•f'J 


SIR  JAMES  FRAZER 


SIR  JAMES  FRAZER 

“The  windows  of  my  study  look  on  the  tranquil  court  of  an  ancient 
college,  where  the  sundial  marks  the  silent  passage  of  the  hours,  and 
in  the  long  summer  days  the  fountain  splashes  drowsily  amid  flowers 
and  grass;  where,  as  the  evening  shadows  deepen,  the  lights  come  out 
in  the  blazoned  windows  of  the  Elizabethan  hall  and  from  the  chapel 
the  sweet  voices  of  the  choir,  blent  with  the  pealing  music  of  the 
organ,  float  on  the  peaceful  air,  telling  of  man’s  eternal  aspirations 
after  truth  and  goodness  and  immortality.  Here,  if  anywhere,  remote 
from  the  tumult  and  bustle  of  the  world  with  its  pomps  and  vanities 
and  ambitions,  the  student  may  hope  to  hear  the  still  voice  of  truth, 
to  penetrate  through  the  little  transitory  questions  of  the  hour  to  the 
realities  which  abide,  or  rather  which  we  fondly  think  must  abide, 
while  the  generations  come  and  go.” 

These  words,  taken  from  the  preface  to  Sir  James  Frazer’s  great 
commentary  on  the  Greek  traveller,  Pausanias,  disclose  the  motive 
and  the  inspiration  of  a life  given  to  patient  labour  in  the  field  of  com- 
parative religion  and  anthropology.  Taking  as  his  point  of  departure 
the  mysterious  priest  of  the  sacred  oak-tree  on  the  shore  of  Diana’s 
Mirror  at  Nemi,  the  author  of  the  Golden  Bough  follows,  through 
intricate  deviations  where  the  grotesque  horror  of  savagery  is  some- 
times transfigured  by  tragic  beauty,  sometimes  transformed  to  the 
innocent  mummery  of  country  sports,  the  pattern  of  that  fatal  web 
“woven  of  three  different  threads  — the  black  thread  of  magic,  the 
red  thread  of  religion,  and  the  white  thread  of  science.”  No  one  who 
has  watched  this  grim  and  fantastic  procession  of  medicine-men,  of 
priests  and  magicians,  of  dying  kings  and  dying  Gods,  the  rulers,  de- 
luders,  and  saviours  of  mankind,  can  ever  again  look  with  same  eyes 
upon  the  attempts  of  magic,  religion,  and  philosophy  to  read  in  the 
features  of  Nature  the  expression  of  a spirit  responsive  to  the  spirit  of 
man. 

A younger  generation  has  already  entered  into  these  labours.  It  is 
the  scholar’s  reward  to  know  that,  if  he  has  sought  truth  faithfully, 
he  has  kindled  a light  from  which  other  and  yet  other  lamps  will  take 
fire  long  after  his  own  shall  have  been  extinguished. 


id  I 


JOHN  GALSWORTHY 


JOHN  GALSWORTHY 

If  you  look  at  his  face,  you  perceive  at  once  the  high  English  breed- 
ing, with  its  sense  of  balance  and  fairplay ; the  intellectual  quality  that 
some  contrive  to  retain  or  even  acquire  at  a public  school  and  Oxford; 
the  profound  emotion  industriously  restrained  and  never  allowed 
public  expression;  and  a sensitiveness  almost  excessive  to  the  pain, 
especially  the  physical  pain,  of  men,  women,  and  animals.  The  face 
is  the  man  no  less  than  the  style.  And  by  style  is  meant,  not  merely 
the  choice  of  words  and  the  arrangement  of  sentences,  but  a particular 
aspect  of  the  world,  a way  of  looking  at  things,  the  choice  of  this 
sudject  or  that. 

All  these  fine  characteristics  are  shown  in  the  long  series  of  dramas 
and  novels  which  Galsworthy  has  produced  during  the  last  twenty 
years  or  so.  One  need  hardly  separate  the  instances,  but  perhaps  the 
balance  and  fairplay  are  especially  obvious  in  “The  Silver  Box,”  “The 
Eldest  Son,”  “Strife,”  and  “The  Skin  Game”  among  the  dramas,  and 
in  “Fraternity,”  “The  Freelands,”  and  “Saint’s  Progress”  among  the 
novels;  the  restrained  emotion  especially  in  “The  Country  House,” 
“The  Patrician,”  and  “The  Dark  Flower.”  The  intellectual  quality 
is  too  pervasive  for  distinct  illustration,  and  so  is  the  extreme  sensi- 
tiveness to  the  pain  of  others.  But  one  may  say  that  no  one  except 
a writer  educated  at  an  English  public  school  and  university  could 
possibly  have  written  “The  Man  of  Property,”  “The  Country  House,” 
“The  Patrician,”  or  “Saint’s  Progress,”  for  they  reveal  the  very  heart 
of  the  highly  educated,  upper-middle  class  to  which  such  a man  al- 
most invariably  belongs.  And  as  to  sensitive  sympathy  with  the  pains 
and  sorrows  of  the  world,  think  of  the  prison  scenes  in  “Justice”  or 
the  final  act  of  “The  Fugitive!”  But  think  also  of  the  charming  satire 
with  which  the  dramatist  laughs  at  his  own  sensitiveness  in  that 
exquisite  play  called  “The  Pigeon.” 

Stuffy  critics  may  complain  that  Galsworthy  has  the  defects  of  all 
these  great  qualities.  They  may  say  that  intellect  and  balance  and  the 
restraint  of  emotion  keep  him  cold.  They  may  say  his  over-sensitive- 
ness betrays  him  into  sentiment.  Nevermind!  He  possesses  those  great 
qualities,  defects  or  not,  and  they  have  combined  to  make  in  him  an 
English  dramatist,  novelist,  and  essayist  of  a singularly  noble  and  dis- 
tinctive style.  To  him  as  much  as  to  any  living  writer  our  literature 
owes  the  preservation  of  its  dignity  and  thoughtfulness. 


r 


M.  ANDRE  GIDE 


M.  ANDRE  GIDE 

Most  resolutely  individualist  of  all  recent  writers  in  the  French 
language,  M.  Andre  Gide  seems  predisposed  to  appreciate  England 
and  to  be  weclomed  by  English  readers.  For  the  author  of  “La  Porte 
Etroite,”  Puritanism  can  offer  no  obscurity;  “Paludes”  is  a work  of 
humour  as  pure  as  that  of  Sterne  or  Max  Beerbohm;  the  bonds  of 
Latin  logic  are  nowhere  more  fantastically  twisted  than  in  “Les 
Caves  du  Vatican/'  nowhere  more  arrogantly  broken  than  in  “L’lm- 
moraliste.” 

The  genius  of  M.  Gide  is  dark  and  lustrous,  like  a pool  in  the  forest; 
sometimes  the  wind  catches  its  surface  as  in  44  Pretextes”,  sometimes 
the  twilight  broods  over  its  mystery,  as  in  44  Isabelle”.  Intelligent, 
delicate  and  weary,  M.  Gide  is  barely  saved,  by  his  exquisite  instinct  of 
expression,  from  being  a mere  spectator  of  life.  The  beautiful  qual- 
ities of  his  soul,  his  pity,  his  tenderness,  his  frugal  and  unfettered 
clairvoyance  arm  him  for  contemplation  rather  than  for  action.  He 
gives  the  reader  an  impression  of  writing  because  his  talent  tells  him 
that  he  must,  but  all  the  while  preferring  silence  and  the  fantastic 
pleasures  of  reverie. 


EDMUND  GOSSE 


MR.  EDMUND  GOSSE 

There  are  writers  who  by  sheer  ingenuity  of  mind  can  make  any 
subject  entertaining,  who  do  in  fact  find  one  subject  as  entertaining  as 
another;  they  are  the  excursionists  of  literature,  ready  to  make  brief 
abstracts  of  the  Nile,  bi-metallism,  or  the  Campden  Wonder  indiffer- 
ently; taking  colour,  not  giving  it,  the  journalists  in  excelsis.  Far  rarer 
is  the  writer  who  from  the  vantage  of  his  own  personality  can  cover 
an  immense  range  of  subject  and  achieve  unity  above  all  his  variety; 
the  true  Man  of  Letters.  In  this  kind  no  one  living  excels  Mr.  Gosse, 
nor  is  it  easy  to  think  of  anyone  who  can  be  said  to  approach  him.  To 
have  written  the  best  autobiographical  fiction  of  a generation,  (to  rank 
with  ‘The  Way  of  All  Flesh’),  half  a dozen  volumes  of  critical  essays 
that  must  have  won  the  admiration  of  Lamb  or  Dr.  Johnson,  certainly 
one  and  possibly  three  biographies  of  the  highest  order,  to  have  con- 
tributed largely  to  the  proper  editing  of  English  Poetry  and  to  have 
struck  his  own  individual  note  in  verse,  to  have  impressed  fine  schol- 
arship upon  the  occasional  column,  this  is  a reckoning  hardly  to  be 
matched.  But  in  his  ability  to  inform  all  these  enterprises  alike  with 
the  clear  tones  of  his  own  personal  quality  Mr.  Gosse  raises  accom- 
plishment to  the  point  of  genius. 

There  was  lately  an  absurd  memorial  to  Mr.  Gosse.  Absurd,  not 
because  of  the  homage  it  paid,  for  none  could  have  been  given  more 
fitly,  not  because  it  lacked  authority,  for  a more  representative  array 
of  talent  can  rarely  have  gathered  to  such  a purpose.  It  was  absurd 
because  of  its  occasion,  which  purported  to  be  Mr.  Gosse’s  arrival  at 
the  age  of  seventy.  It  is  unlikely  that  any  of  the  signatories  consulted 
the  registers,  and  the  truth  doubtless  is  that  Mr.  Gosse  slyly  hoaxed 
his  contemporaries,  to  see  what  they  thought  of  him.  He  should  be 
satisfied;  for  affection  was  never  declared  more  cordially.  But  no  one 
who  knows  him  supposes  that  he  is  seventy;  it  merely  was  not  polite 
to  contradict.  The  only  venerable  thing  about  him  is  the  entire  gen- 
erosity with  which  he  gives  himself  to  the  cause  of  younger  writers. 
But  when  some  of  these  are  really  growing  old,  Mr.  Gosse,  while  he 
will  be  encouraging  them  with  generous  praise,  will  as  surely  still  be 
instructing  them  by  his  example. 


4 


LORD  HALDANE,  O.M. 


LORD  HALDANE,  O.M. 

Though  a Scottish  lawyer  with  a gift  for  metaphysics  is  not  one 
of  the  rarer  manifestations  of  the  Divine  Energy  Lord  Haldane  tran- 
scends the  ordinary  computations  even  of  Scottish  competence  in 
these  fields  of  excellence.  He  can  think  harder,  work  longer  hours, 
interest  himself  in  more  subjects,  talk  at  greater  length  on  a greater 
number  of  themes  than  other  men  even  of  his  laborious  and  efficient 
stock.  In  him  capacity  and  copiousness  are  carried  almost  to  the  point 
of  genius.  He  does  not  sparkle  in  epigrams  and  phrases.  His  name 
does  not  stand  for  romance  or  poetry.  He  has  added  no  page  to  the 
finest  literature  of  our  race,  but  few  men  in  the  sphere  of  practical 
life  have  held  so  close  to  great  ideas  or  have  rendered  more  important 
service  to  their  country. 

The  grand  virtue  of  Lord  Haldane  is  that  in  a life  of  prodigious 
business  he  has  never  lost  faith  in  ideas.  The  Labour  men  trust  him. 
They  see  something  massive  and  large  in  his  turn-out  and  they  think 
that  his  mind  reaches  out  to  the  future.  In  his  own  profession  of  the 
law  he  rose  to  the  highest  pinnacle  and  earned  golden  opinions  for  the 
solidity  and  sublety  of  his  legal  accomplishments.  His  greatest  tri- 
umphs known  were  gained  neither  in  the  law  courts  nor  in  Parliament 
nor  in  the  study  or  lecture  room,  thongh  in  each  of  these  widely  dif- 
fering fields  he  has  won  laurels,  but  at  the  War  Office.  His  work  here 
is  acknowledged  by  the  soldiers  who  know  and  count  as  of  incompar- 
able importance.  He  made  the  General  Staff,  the  Officers’  Training 
Corps,  the  Expeditionary  Force,  the  Territorial  Army. 

It  was  a thousand  pities  that  popular  prejudice,  inflamed  by  un- 
scrupulous journalism,  prevented  his  employment  at  the  War  Office 
in  the  opening  stages  of  the  Great  War.  His  ability  and  experience 
would  have  saved  us  from  many  mistakes. 

In  abundance  of  individual  vitality  this  burly  and  genial  idealist 
resembles  Gladstone  and  it  is  difficult  to  recall  the  name  of  a states- 
man, deficient  in  the  higher  oratorical  and  Parliamentary  gifts,  who 
by  sheer  force  of  intellect  and  character  has  wielded  so  large  an  influ- 
ence or  emerged  from  a cloud  of  detration  with  so  little  which  the 
future  historian  will  think  fit  to  reprehend. 


jj.f..  <v6 


THOMAS  HARDY,  O.M. 


THOMAS  HARDY,  O.M. 

It  is  usual  to  classify  Thomas  Hardy  as  a novelist  who  has  also 
written  verse.  The  truth  is  that  he  is  a poet  throughout.  He  began 
with  verse:  but  soon  found  the  lyric  form  too  limited  for  him.  He 
was  by  nature  not  only  Singer  but  Storyteller,  Philosopher,  and  Pat- 
riot. It  was  the  Philosopher  who  first  needed  expression  rand  his  view 
of  human  life  was  not  one  to  be  easily  presented  in  the  chance  lights 
and  reflections  of  small  disconnected  poems,  for  it  was  deep  and  far- 
reaching.  The  genius  of  narrative  too  demanded  greater  range  of  style 
than  verse  could  easily  give.  Hardy  turned  therefore  from  his  lyrics 
and  ballads  to  the  vast  series  of  his  prose  stories. 

In  these  he  developed  the  philosophy  of  his  early  poems — a philos- 
ophy built  up  under  the  influence  of  the  Greek  and  the  Shakespearian 
tragedies,  and  based  on  a sense  of  the  conflict  between  the  eternal  forces 
ruling  human  life — the  conflict  of  desires  and  possibilities.  The  Powers 
are  too  strong  for  Man:  they  bring  him  in  typical  cases  to  disaster, 
complete  and  even  sordid.  Moreover,  in  their  action  there  is  no  sense 
discernible.  Herein  lies  the  tragedy  of  life  as  Hardy  sees  it:  and  it 
darkens  his  view  of  national  as  well  as  of  individual  history — the  great 
epic  drama  of  the  Dynasts  and  the  poignant  later  poems  are  full  of  it. 

Throughout  his  creative  work  Hardy  is  sympathetic  and  humane: 
his  essential  goodness  almost  obscures  his  greatness.  For  range  of  vision 
and  grasp  of  life  he  stands  with  Shakespeare,  Wordsworth  and  Brown- 
ing: but  his  humility,  his  self-criticism,  his  power  of  observing  human 
weakness  without  condemning  it,  his  love  of  the  suffering  rather  than 
the  strong,  caused  a temporary  occultation  of  his  genius.  His  attitude 
was  resented  as  that  of  a pessimist,  a traducer  of  God  and  Man,  and 
especially  of  God.  Truly  he  is  not  “on  the  side  of  the  Angels’’ — when 
he  looks  at  life  he  does  not  see  Angels — but  he  has  always  been  against 
the  Devils,  the  Wrongers,  personal  and  impersonal,  human  or  super- 
human. He  is  the  lover  and  champion  of  Man.  Lastly,  he  is  in  every 
fibre  a true  representative  of  the  peculiar  spirit  of  his  countrymen  — 
one  of  the  small  company  of  great  poets  who  will  carry  the  fame  of 
England  into  a distant  future. 


A.  E.  HOUSMAN 


A.  E.  HOUSMAN 

A.  E.  Housman  is  a poet  in  the  English  tradition.  Calling  his  solitary 
book  of  lyrics  A Shropshire  Lad , he  takes  the  reader  back  to  a time 
when  poetry  was  not  merely  or  mainly  metropolitan  and  each  county 
knew  creative  pride.  He  uses  the  simplest  English  forms,  writing 
new  ballads  that  wear  the  grimness  of  the  old ; and  he  uses  the  simplest 
English  themes,  turning  to  days  when  the  ploughman  naturally  loved 
a scarlet  coat  and,  breaking  the  laws,  was  hanged  for  it  without  philo- 
sophically reviling  the  laws.  His  briefest  verses  have  uncommon  en- 
ergy ; they  are  a man’s  poetry  and  quicken  the  hearts  of  common  men. 
It  is  a poetry  which  moves  in  the  changeful  waters  of  our  time  like  a 
swimmer  conscious  of  his  strength  and  careless  of  all  else.  The  best 
of  the  lyrics — few  are  below  the  best — have  each  this  athletic  power, 
a masculine  curtness  and  full  pride  of  life. 

There  is  something  else,  something  which  only  individual  genius 
can  impress  upon  the  traditional  forms  and  expand  them  with  a more 
than  mortal  beauty.  He  looks  at  a man  dying  young: 

And  round  that  early  laurelled  head 

Will  flock  to  gaze  the  strengthless  dead, 

And  find  unwithered  on  its  curls 
The  garland  briefer  than  a girl’s. 

And  here  too  he  speaks  with  fresh  ease  in  the  classic  manner  of 
English  lyrical  poets: 

Bring,  in  this  timeless  grave  to  throw, 

No  cypress,  sombre  on  the  snow; 

Snap  not  from  the  bitter  yew 

His  leaves  that  live  December  through; 

Break  no  rosemary,  bright  with  rime 
And  sparkling  to  the  cruel  clime. 

It  is  at  once  old  and  new,  familiar  and  vivid. 

That  so  small  a book  should  present  so  sharp  a figure  in  an  atmos- 
phere so  clear,  is  the  last  tribute  to  A.  E.  Housman.  The  figure  of  A 
Shropshire  Lad  is  one  whose  chief  energy  is  action  rather  than  thought ; 
one  for  whom  life  holds  change,  passion,  glory,  shame;  one  who  will 
easily  avoid  the  gravest  failure  — failure  to  live  intensely.  Looking 
at  the  figure,  as  he  emerges  from  these  sixty-three  lyrics  and  stands 
salient  before  you,  the  full  proof  of  A.  E.  Housman’s  genius  is  seen  in 
this,  that  he  has  created  that  figure  neither  larger  nor  smaller  than  life. 


I 


W.  H.  HUDSON 


W.  H.  HUDSON 

How  many  epoch-making  works  have  gone  into  the  pulping  vat, 
since  “El  Ombu”  appeared. 

There  is  no  new  way  to  pay  old  debts  in  spite  of  Massinger.  From 
the  beginning  of  the  world  good  taste  has  governed  all  the  arts. 

The  greatest  artists  have  been  eminently  sane.  The  so-called  artistic 
temperament  did  not  seem  to  have  existed  for  them.  They  all  went 
about,  carefully  carrying  on  the  ordinary  business  of  life,  paying  their 
debts  (when  they  were  able)  and  bearing  their  life’s  burden  patiently, 
knowing  the  end  would  set  them  free. 

Genius  digs  the  foundation  of  the  edifice  it  rears,  not  knowing  con- 
sciously that  it  is  building  for  eternity,  and  works  so  unobtrusively 
that  the  passer-by  seldom  perceives  a Parthenon  is  being  built. 

Hudson  neither  broke  into  the  mystery  of  our  yeasty  sea,  heralded 
with  paragraphs,  or  blare  of  rattling  tin-trumpets,  nor  was  he,  as  was 
Paul  of  T arsus,  born  free,  but  gained  his  freedom  at  great  price,  paying 
for  it  with  neglect  and  poverty. 

He  has  emerged  at  last  and  takes  his  place  in  the  first  rank  of  English 
writers.  Perhaps  he  is  a class  alone,  for  who  that  writes  to-day,  has  his 
strange,  searching  charm,  his  great  simplicity,  his  love  of  animals;  not 
as  a man,  being  a god  to  them  and  knowing  all  things:  but  humble  as 
themselves,  humble  because  his  genius  shows  him  that  in  the  scheme 
of  nature  one  thing  certifies  the  other,  and  the  parts  glorify  the  whole. 

Versed,  in  his  youth,  more  in  the  use  of  the  “lazo”  and  the  “bole- 
adoras”  than  the  pen,  I think  his  love  of  nature  set  him  on  to  write 
instinctively,  just  as  a gaucho  child,  putting  its  little  naked  toe  upon 
the  horse’s  knee,  climbs  up  and  rides  because  he  is  compelled  to  ride 
or  to  remain  a maimed  and  crippled  animal,  travelling  the  plains  on 
foot. 

So  does  a Magellanic  owl,  when  once  full-feathered,  launch  itself 
into  the  air  and  float  off  noiselessly. 


THE  DEAN  OF  SAINT  PAUL’S 


THE  DEAN  OF  SAINT  PAUL’S 

It  is  not  rare  that  a man  hostile  to  the  spirit  of  his  age,  a Swift  or 
a Voltaire,  should  reflect  it  perfectly.  Current  sophistries  and  super- 
stitions are  perpetuated  in  controversy.  Protagoras  lives  for  us  in  Plato, 
and  Jurieu’s  doctrine  of  irresponsible  democracy  in  Bossuet’s  reply. 
Perhaps  some  feminine  characteristic  is  latent  in  all  democracies,  that 
being  persecuted  they  endure,  and  bless  those  that  curse  them:  the 
delicate  sensibility  of  women  found  a subtile  flattery  in  the  monkish 
phrase,  instrumentum  diabolic  reaching  to  a like  stimulus  our  own  age 
accepts  Dean  Inge  as  not  least  among  its  prophets. 

The  face  shows  a gravity  almost  sombre,  the  eyes  an  inflexible 
watchfulness,  the  mouth  a theological  severity,  and  these  are  qualities 
of  his  style.  So  admirable  a piece  of  work  as  his  Plotinus , could  have 
been  written  only  by  one,  for  whom  mysticism  had  an  almost  irresist- 
ible fascination:  but  the  mind  is  divided;  it  is  too  preoccupied  by  pol- 
itics, ethics,  science,  even  by  theological  dogmas  and  discipline;  it  is 
too  reasonable,  perhaps,  ever  to  attain  to  the  beatific  vision,  in  which 
opposites  are  reconciled,  and  things  incompatible  admitted  equally. 
It  is  too  partial;  for  the  mystic,  like  the  agnostic,  ends  in  complete 
negation,  when  all  sense,  mind,  and  desire,  and  even  the  denial  of 
them  are  extinguished  in  the  eternal  silence  which  is  God. 

In  external  questions,  truth  is  negligible,  since  it  is  imposed  on  us. 
Outside  the  ideal  world  of  our  own  creating,  there  is  only  a blind  ac- 
tion of  natural  forces,  which  the  mind  of  man  will  always  disregard. 
The  future  is  not  determined  by  reason;  but  reason  and  those  obscure 
reactions  to  circumstances,  which  we  call  instincts,  are  molten  to- 
gether, precipitated  into  the  incoherent  effects  of  action,  by  a sudden 
passion  of  the  will.  Progress  is  change,  a dispersion  of  forces  and 
values  without  object:  science  only  extends  the  field  of  human  error. 
Though  recognizing  that  reason  has  denied  a material,  as  it  had  denied 
previously  a spiritual  progress,  humanity  obeys  its  instincts:  it  is  this 
complex  and  illogical  process  that  Dean  Inge  reflects  so  clearly;  but 
of  which  he  is  also,  in  some  sense,  the  child. 


W.  Jfc*.  < t f 'i-4* 


THOMAS  EDWARD  LAWRENCE 


THOMAS  EDWARD  LAWRENCE 

He  is  not  so  young  as  he  looks  and  he  is  hardly  anything  that  he  is 
popularly  supposed  to  be  — not  Daredevil  for  example,  nor  Knight- 
errant  nor  Visionary  nor  Romantick.  The  things  he  wants  not  to 
be  are  quite  numerous;  but  things  he  could  be,  if  he  wanted,  are  more 
numerous  still.  He  is  not  fond  of  being  anything,  and  official  categories 
do  not  fit  him.  He  can  do  most  things  and  does  some;  but  to  expect 
him  to  do  a particular  thing  is  rash.  Besides  being  anti-official,  he  dis- 
likes fighting  and  Arab  clothes,  Arab  ways,  and  social  functions,  civiliz- 
ed or  uncivilized.  He  takes  a good  deal  of  trouble  about  all  things  but 
quite  a great  deal  about  repelling  the  people  whom  he  attracts,  in- 
cluding all  sorts  and  conditions  of  men  and  some  sorts  and  conditions 
of  women;  but  he  is  beginning  to  be  discouraged  by  consistent  failure, 
which  now  and  then  he  does  not  regret.  He  has  as  much  interest  as 
faith  in  himself : but  those  who  share  the  last  are  not  asked  to  share  the 
first.  He  makes  fun  of  others  or  kings  of  them,  but  if  anyone  tries  to 
make  either  one  or  the  other  of  him  he  runs  away.  Pushing  (not  him- 
self) he  finds  more  congenial  than  leading  and  he  loves  to  push  the 
unsuspecting  body : but  if  it  does  not  get  on  as  fast  as  he  thinks  it  should, 
he  pushes  it  into  the  gutter  and  steps  to  the  front.  What  he  thinks 
is  his  Law.  To  think  as  fast  or  as  far  as  he  thinks  is  not  easy,  and  still 
less  easy  is  it  to  follow  up  with  such  swift  action.  He  can  be  as  per- 
suasive as  positive;  and  the  tale  of  those  he  has  hocussed  into  doing 
something  they  never  meant  to  do  and  are  not  aware  that  they  are 
doing,  is  long.  It  is  better  to  be  his  partner  than  his  opponent,  for  when 
he  is  not  bluffing,  he  has  a way  of  holding  the  aces:  and  he  can  be  ruth- 
less, caring  little  what  eggs  he  breaks  to  make  his  omelettes  and  ignor- 
ing responsibility  either  for  the  shells  or  for  the  digestion  of  the  mess. 
Altogether  a force  felt  by  many  but  not  yet  fully  gauged  either  by 
others  or  by  himself.  He  should  go  far ; but  it  may  be  in  driving  lonely 
furrows  where  at  present  few  expect  him  to  plough. 


V 


JOHN  MASEFIELD 


JOHN  MASEFIELD 

Masefield,  the  poet — as  it  concerns  the  public  to  know  him — was 
probably  born  in  the  first  years  of  the  seventeenth-century.  He  was 
country  and  not  town  bred,  that  seems  certain.  For  some  part  of  his 
youth  he  was  probably  at  sea;  we  may  judge  this  by  the  ease  with 
which  he  writes  of  all  seafaring  things;  otherwise  the  episode  is  only 
important  in  his  career  if  it  burned  deeper  into  his  consciousness  his 
close  inheritance  from  Elizabethan  England,  its  passionate  ambition 
for  adventure  into  new  worlds  of  fact  and  thought,  its  suddenly  de- 
veloped sense  of  national  worth  and  honour.  We  note  his  reverence 
for  learning,  too,  see  him  next,  if  chance  allowed,  drawn  towards  Ox- 
ford. And  if  so  he  surely  found  himself  in  Falkland’s  circle,  following 
their  trend  from  poetry  to  philosophy,  much  at  ease  in  that  short 
golden  age  of  English  culture.  From  such  a happy  time  and  circum- 
stance we  might  well  be  dating  his  maturer  work  as  we  now  know  it; 
gentle,  high  of  thought,  classic  in  outline,  traditionalist,  but  not  con- 
strained, tolerant,  stoical  in  obligation,  Christian  in  consideration;  the 
work  of  a patrician  mind.  But  that  was  not  to  be.  Political  catastrophe 
shattered  the  England  of  those  dreams.  And  only  now,  within  this 
decade  or  so,  does  it  seem  that  we  at  last  may  be  resolving  the  issue  of 
the  Puritan  challenge;  its  spiritual  bravery  absorbed  and  ourselves 
purged  of  its  dross,  its  flocks-and-herds  Old  Testament  materialism. 

But  Masefield  comes  to  his  inheritance  now  and  already  he  has  en- 
larged it  for  yet  younger  men;  witness  their  regard  for  him,  safe  token 
that  he  is  of  the  legitimate  line.  For  he  is  so  infinitely  English ; genu- 
inely, unselfconsciously  so.  Therefore,  he  writes  poetry  as  naturally  as 
he  speaks,  writing  of  common  English  things,  his  poet’s  task  to  make 
us  feel  that  England  in  every  blade  of  grass,  in  every  brain,  in  every 
stroke  of  hand  can  be,  if  so  she  will  be,  worthily  alive. 


GEORGE  RUSSELL  (A.  E.) 


GEORGE  RUSSELL  (A.  E.) 

When  we  mention  names  such  as  Milton  or  Velasquez  or  Beethoven 
we  speak  of  people  in  whom  there  is  i nstantly  recognized  one  peculiar 
and  fundamental  excellence,  and  the  task  of  appraising  them  is  facili- 
tated by  being  limited.  Of  certain  others,  such  as  Shakespeare  or  da 
Vinci  or  Michael  Angelo,  this  is  not  true — Their  energies  overflow 
any  possible  vessel,  and  under  whatever  examination  they  remain  as 
unknown  as  beings  from  another  sphere.  This  enormous  and  baffling 
energy  is  also  to  be  found  in  Mr.  George  Russell  (A.E.),  so  that  while 
he  is  known  to  some  as  a painter  of  delightful  pictures  others  recognize 
him  mainly  as  a poet,  while  many,  again,  think  of  him  as  an  expert  on 
economics,  as  a distinguished  social  theorist,  as  a mystic  philosopher, 
as  a terrific  controversalist,  or  even  as  a brilliant  and  tireless  conversa- 
tionalist. This  energy  is  the  very  hall-mark  of  genius,  and  whether 
the  world  wins  or  loses  by  a dispersal  rather  than  a concentration  of 
energy  is  a matter  for  speculation.  “The  world”  is  a large  matter  and 
one  may  not  speak  with  much  assurance  about  it.  If  A.E.  had  not 
written  poems  would  he  have  been  a better  painter?  If  he  had  fore- 
gone painting  and  poetry  would  he  now  be  the  greatest  writer  of 
English  prose  living?  These  are  questions  full  of  intellectual  interest, 
but  in  the  long  run  they  do  not  matter  in  the  least,  for  if  the  person 
spoken  of  is  free  from  worldly  ambition  he  is  not  affected  in  any  way. 
The  work  of  an  artist  is  only  incidentally  cultural,  he  is  one  who  lib- 
erates himself  for  himself  and  explains  himself  to  himself.  It  is  as  a poet 
that  the  writer  personally  conceives  A.E.,  and,  with  the  sole  exception 
of  Mr.  Yeats,  there  is  no  person  living  worthy  of  being  measured  a- 
gainst  him.  But  in  this  art  he  requires  imaginative  reading,  and  he 
may,  for  a long  time  yet,  be  invisible  to  the  average  book-buyer. 


-A^H: 


in.  fL . yj'ii  ■. 


A/ o'/-  ! 


G.  BERNARD  SHAW 


MR.  G.  BERNARD  SHAW 

Mr.  Shaw,  like  most  great  writers  when  they  become  familiar,  is 
now  taken  for  granted ; people,  especially  the  young,  enjoy  his  writing 
without  giving  him  credit  for  their  enjoyment.  He  has  ceased  to 
surprise  and  would  do  so  only  if  he  wrote  badly;  but  posterity,  after 
he  has  been  forgotten  for  a while,  will  discover  that  he  is  one  of  the 
great  masters  of  comedy.  People  complain  now  that  he  is  not  like 
the  other  Great  Masters;  but  they  are  not  like  each  other.  Each  of 
them  has  written  a new  kind  of  comedy;  and  so  has  Mr.  Shaw.  Each 
of  them,  probably  has  been  called  cruel,  but  there  is  an  almost  morbid 
humanity  in  all  of  them  which  they  try  to  conceal  by  one  device  or 
another.  Mr.  Shaw  is  as  bad  at  concealing  it  as  any  of  them  and  grows 
worse  as  he  gets  older.  It  becomes  more  and  more  plain  that  he  is  a 
D on  Quixote  who  has  never  gone  mad,  an  Irish  Gentleman  of  the  old 
school  who  loves  good  stories  and  simple  people,  even  when  English, 
and  for  whom  chivalry  is  the  most  necessary  of  all  virtues. 

Mr.  Shaw  has  almost  made  a parade  of  the  modernity  of  his  tastes; 
but  I doubt  whether  he  really  likes  even  Ibsen.  He  has  supported 
Ibsen  out  of  chivalry,  but  his  secret  idol  is  Shakespeare  and  still  more 
M ozart.  Indeed  he  might  say  with  a slight  alteration  of  Prior’s  Ode  :- 

The  Merchant,  to  secure  his  treasure, 

Conveys  it  in  a borrowed  name: 

Wagner  may  serve  to  grace  my  measure, 

But  Mozart  is  my  real  flame. 

Mozart,  and  everything  he  means,  is  what  Mr.  Shaw  enjoys;  and 
he  remains,  perhaps,  a little  puzzled  by  his  own  tastes  in  art  and  in 
human  beings.  After  all,  he  sees,  the  Christian  virtues  are  what  he 
really  likes  and  the  artists  whom  no  one  doubts,  Michelangelo,  Shake- 
speare, Mozart.  Mankind  are  not  so  far  wrong,  at  least  in  their  wor- 
ship, as  he  once  believed ; and  he  himself  likes  mankind  better  than  he 
thought.  So  posterity  will  like  him  better  than  he  expects;  and  few 
of  our  writers  are  so  sure  of  being  read  by  it. 


SIR  J.J.  THOMSON,  O.M. 


SIR  J.  J.  THOMSON,  O.M. 

The  University  of  Cambridge  takes  rank  in  the  fore-front  of  the 
intellectual  centres  of  the  English-speaking  race,  aud  it  is  expected 
that  the  Master  of  Trinity  shall  be  among  her  most  representative 
men.  What  sort  of  man  then  is  it  whose  recent  nomination  by  the 
Crown  to  that  high  office  has  been  received  with  such  universal  ac- 
claim ? 

The  great  reputation  of  Sir  Joseph  John  Thomson  was  not  acquired 
in  the  domain  of  public  affairs.  His  life-work  has  rather  been  in  the 
most  retired  fields  of  effort  purely  intellectual,  whose  harvest  yet  can 
lead  to  more  enduring  fame  than  the  most  brilliant  service  of  a place- 
man to  the  transient  age  for  which  he  works. 

He  was  destined  to  open  up  for  the  Cavendish  Laboratory  new 
fields  of  renown.  By  unsparing  work  and  thought  the  experience  and 
apparatus  requisite  for  novel  and  ambitious  experimental  designs  were 
in  the  course  of  years  built  up.  The  culmination  came  twenty-three 
years  ago  when  he  was  able  to  announce  the  deviation,  and  scrutiny 
in  detail,  of  the  primordial  moving  objects,  minute  beyond  previous 
conception,  which  are  functioning  all  around  us  as  the  ultimate  found- 
ation of  light  and  electricity,  even  perhaps  of  matter  itself.  The  band 
of  enthusiasts  who  were  then  engaged  with  him  in  translating  into 
firm  experimental  fact  the  relations  of  their  electrons,  which  had  pre- 
viously existed  only  in  shadowy  form  in  theory,  could  hardly  have  im- 
agined that  in  twenty  years  those  elusive  particles,  moving  at  speeds 
almost  incredible,  would  have  become  so  amenable  to  control  by  grad- 
ually improved  technique  as  to  form  a sure  foundation  for  signalling 
across  space,  and  even  for  the  direct  transmission  of  speech  and  music 
over  thousands  of  miles, — or  that  the  rights  of  use  of  the  simple  appli- 
ances evolved  for  these  applications  would  have  become  the  subject  of 
of  international  legal  controversy  involving  vast  monetary  interests. 

An  investigator  who  is  conspicuous  in  bringing  about  such  results 
does  not  lack  full  international  appreciation:  it  is  appropriate  that  at 
home  he  should  be  President  of  the  Royal  Society,  while  his  possession 
of  the  Order  of  Merit  even  adds  to  the  international  prestige  of  that 
select  distinction. 


H.  G.  WELLS 


H.  G.  WELLS 

There  are  two  passages  in  Henry  James’s  letters  which  express  pretty 
accurately,  our  view  of  Mr.  Wells’s  place  among  other  writers  of  our 
time,  and  give  a description,  true  and  illuminating,  of  the  essential 
nature  of  his  mind  and  genius.  They  come  in  letters  addressed  to  Mr. 
W ells  himself,  and  the  first  is  this : “And  nothing  matters  after  the  fact 
that  you  are  to  me  so  much  the  most  interesting  representational  and 
ironic  genius  and  faculty,  of  our  Anglo-Saxon  world  and  life,  in  these 
bemuddled  days,  that  you  stand  out  intensely  vivid  and  alone,  making 
nobody  else  signify  at  all.”  The  other  passage  is  as  follows:  “Your 
big  feeling  for  life,  your  capacity  for  chewing  up  the  thickness  of  the 
world  in  such  enormous  mouthfuls,  while  you  fairly  slobber,  so  to 

speak,  with  the  multitudinous  taste ” We  might  almost  leave 

Mr.  Wells  at  that,  but  it  is  pleasant  to  attempt  some  little  elaboration. 

Many  a little  mind  has  run  hither  and  thither,  poking  itself  into 
this  and  that  and  shrilling  its  comments.  It  is  when  one  considers  the 
quality  of  Mr.  Wells’s  that  the  variousness  and  aboundingness  of  its 
achievement  are  so  amazing,  stupefying.  It  is  above  all  a greedy  mind, 
insatiable  of  life  and  thought,  but  this  immense  avidity  never  betrays 
its  clearness  and  subtlety  of  vision.  There  are  the  early  quasi-scientific 
wonder  tales,  which  might  well  be  called  a sort  of  Arabian  Nights  of 
our  age;  there  are  the  earlier  psychological  novels,  and  the  novels  in 
which  life  is  just  “chewed  up”  as  Henry  James  says,  for  its  own  sake; 
there  are  the  later  sociological  novels  which  expound  a thesis,  or  en- 
visage a large  set  of  circumstances,  and  such  a feat  of  reconstruction 
as  “Mr.  Britling”;  there  are  the  direct  sociological  tracts  like  his 
Utopia,  and  a multitude  of  direct  essays  on  the  affairs  and  tendencies 
of  mankind,  and  there  is  the  History  of  the  World,  of  which  it  is 
enough  now,  perhaps,  if  one  asks  what  other  living  writer  could  have 
the  courage  to  attempt  such  a task  and  the  capacity  to  see  it  through. 

It  would  be  absurd  to  suppose  that  all  this  variety  of  achievement 
could  please  everybody  all  the  time.  There  is  no  room  in  this  place 
for  criticism,  and  scarcely  for  preferences.  We  would  say,  however, 
that  after  all  acknowledgment  has  been  made  to  Mr.  Wells’s  philoso- 
phy and  sociology,  his  acute  eye  for  tendencies  and  his  zeal  for  a justly 
ordered  world,  and  after  all  appreciation  of  the  fire  and  tenderness  in 
his  probing  of  human  passions,  what  is  of  the  greatest  and  most  lasting 
value  in  his  work  is  its  record,  vivid, forceful,  lit  up  by  ironic  humour 
but  searchingly  true,  of  the  English  life  of  his  time. 


PHOTOGRAPHED  & PRINTED 
BY  EMERY  WALKER  LIMITED 

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